Fra Leonardo was overwhelmed with passionate gratitude when Matthew, on this evening, remarked that more poetry would soon be forthcoming. “Ah, you are so good to me, my son!” he exclaimed. “I can never repay you.” He had a sudden disturbing thought. He knelt down carefully and examined a row of lettuce. “The abbot,” he remarked, “has again suggested that you call upon him so that he might personally thank you for the lire you gave me yesterday, and on all those yesterdays.”
“No,” said Matthew. “That is impossible. I do not care to make the acquaintance of the reverend abbot. I wish to talk to no one but you. However, you will give him the expression of my deepest regard.”
Fra Leonardo sighed, and nodded. “I have told him that the Signore is very reticent,” he said. “I have also told him that the Signore has been ill a long time, and is uneasy among strangers.”
“I am afraid that is not true,” said Matthew, gravely.
Fra Leonardo looked properly rebuked. “Yes, yes,” he agreed. Then, he slowly lifted his great head and regarded Matthew with compassionate keenness.
He observed, with a sudden bright twinkling of his whole face: “You remember, Signore, how I have always mourned that I could not teach the boys in the school, because I am so very ignorant. It has been my dream to teach. Only this morning, when I felt most sad, the abbot came upon me and asked me why I sighed. I confessed my dream to him. I was afraid he would laugh, though Romans, I have heard, are not given to laughter. But he did not laugh. He only gazed at me and said: ‘My son, I send you out to the vineyards, and to take care of the vegetables, because you are a wise man!’ A ‘wise man’, Signore! Was the abbot indeed laughing at me?”
Matthew stared at him with his large light eyes for a long moment or two. Then he said, in a low tone: “No, Fra Leonardo, he was not laughing at you.”
He picked up a handful of dry red earth and let it sift slowly through his fingers. He sat there on the rock, dressed little better than a peasant in a coarse cotton shirt faded to an old blue, rough trousers, his bare feet thrust into leather sandals. His yellow hair was untidy; his fair skin was scorched by the sun. He appeared to have forgotten the old fat monk. He looked beyond at the sea, which rippled in brilliant green and gold and scarlet, and at Vesuvio, turquoise against a sky which had become pure lapis lazuli.
Fra Leonardo, lovingly heaping the earth about the new lettuce, remembered how Matthew had first appeared to him, three years ago. A young man with death in his face, the monk had thought with intense and simple pity. He had come, one sunset, and had looked high up beyond the wall to the terrace where the monk was working, and Fra Leonardo had greeted him merrily. It was evident, of course, that the stranger was an Englishman, or an American, or a traveler from one of the northern countries, so that the monk was not wounded when Matthew had not answered. He had only stood there, gazing upwards.
Fra Leonardo did not see him again for several days. Then, once more he stood there, looking upwards and, most amazing of all, he greeted the monk before the latter had had time to call down to him. Here, Fra Leonardo had reflected, out of his deep wisdom, was a very shy spirit, a spirit full of terror and illness.
It had taken nearly four months before Matthew had voluntarily opened the gate and climbed up the terrace. Even then, he had done so reluctantly and very slowly, glancing about warily and suspiciously. Fra Leonardo had received this extraordinary visit with the utmost poise and in the most casual of spirits. His manner implied that it was very customary for strangers to visit him, to sit down upon those rocks and watch him, speechlessly, to make no remarks at all, to remain unsmiling, and to go away without a word.
The village was small, boasted no hotel, and had practically no tourist business, for tourists overlooked these few houses, this poor monastero and school, in their haste to visit Amalfi, Sorrento and Capri. Who lived here but a few poor peasants and a few monks even poorer? In the little chapel there was not a single Titian, not a piece of marble touched by the magic hands of Michelangelo, not a mosaic worth a second glance, not an altar that could draw one admiring exclamation. The view? There were thousands of views in Italy. Italy was nothing but views, and the view here was not so good as the views at Sorrento and Amalfi. The beach was narrow and stony and uninviting. And so, it was very odd, said everyone, including the monks, that a rich American signore should take a very dilapidated little villa near the village, and live as poorly as any peasant.
An old woman cared very casually for his villa, bought his fish and cheese and wine and bread and spaghetti, and cooked for him. She, too, had a story to tell. The American signore had the most magnificent clothing, which he never wore. He had a gold watch and a diamond ring, and white silk scarfs beyond imagining, and underwear fit for the king himself. He also had much money; she herself had seen it. But he cared nothing for this. The older men nodded wisely. The American signore wished to live quietly. This was evident. He received few letters, but many books, from London and Paris and Rome. Perhaps he was a poet, like all those famous Englishmen who had lived at Amalfi and Sorrento. Perhaps he would make this village renowned, also.
When it was reported, a year later, that large boxes containing canvases and paints and brushes had arrived for the signore, the excitement was discreetly frenzied. But the signore, after examining them listlessly, had not opened the boxes. He had lived here three years and he had still not opened them.
To the people, it was not remarkable that he had accepted Fra Leonardo as his friend. It was quite in keeping with all the romantic tales and songs. It was very satisfying and poetic. The people began to look upon Fra Leonardo with respect, and so did the abbot, when the lire began to arrive, for the school and the monastero, via the soil-stained hands of the old monk.
But Matthew made no other friends. He began, however, to show slight signs of friendliness towards the villagers, when he finally discovered that they had accepted his presence and looked at him with kindness. Once or twice he was seen talking to a child, or playing with a dog or a kitten. Beyond this he did not go, not in all these three years.
Fra Leonardo, himself, never wondered why Matthew had sought him out. It was enough for the old monk that Matthew came and talked with him, and sat beside him until the evening star came out and the sea became the color of a ripe plum. He accepted these visits as one accepts all that life and the earth have to give, simply, with affection and pleasure.
Once, only once, had Matthew remarked haltingly that he, at one time, had had hopes of becoming an artist, of painting great pictures. It had been a delicate moment. Fra Leonardo had accepted this strange and involuntary confidence with simplicity, and had made no comment.
There will come a day when he will awaken, the old monk thought. There will be an hour when his spirit will come forth from its dark hiding-place. Not yet, not perhaps for a long time. But the day and the hour will come. In the meantime, I will pray for him, and leave him to God.
The monk prepared to leave his work for the night, but Matthew showed no evidence of going as yet.
“Did you like the poems of Walt Whitman, Fra Leonardo?” he asked. “He was a man like yourself, I think.”
Fra Leonardo said enthusiastically: “How you flatter me, Signore. Yes, I had a sympathy with this poet. How beloved he must be in America!”
Matthew smiled faintly. “He is not beloved by many, I am afraid, though he is called ‘the poet of the people’. Scholars call him so. The people, unfortunately, are not aware that he wrote about them, and for them.” He paused, then asked curiously: “What did you like best in his works?”
Fra Leonardo became suddenly very grave. He wiped his hands on his habit. He looked at the sea, at the village below, at the mountains above. He said: “This I like best: ‘Whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral dressed in his shroud.’”
Matthew was silent. He stood up. “Good night, Fra Leonardo,” he said, courteously.
The monk watched him go. He heard the crea
k of the gate. With sudden swiftness the evening fell. Fra Leonardo sighed. He picked up his gardening tools. He looked at the purple sky, and serenity touched him again. Murmuring his prayers, he moved slowly and ponderously towards the monastero.
CHAPTER LI
As the summer advanced, the intensification of color in the mountains, on the sea, and on the earth, became almost too dazzling, almost too violent. The very air shimmered, refulgently. The sun broke upon the eye in waves of light, caught up the world in fiery hands.
One hot evening Matthew found his old friend sitting, gasping for breath, on the rocks where he himself usually sat. Fra Leonardo said apologetically: “I am afraid I am very old, after all. Today I did not rejoice in the sun. I panted in it.”
Matthew stood near the monk, and regarded him uneasily. The big bronzed face had a livid cast.
“How old are you, Fra Leonardo?” he asked.
The sunken black eyes twinkled. The monk pushed his huge bulk from the rocks and stood up. “Pardon me, Signore,” he said. “Please rest yourself. How old am I? I must confess that by the time the grapes are ripe I shall be eighty.”
“Eighty!” exclaimed Matthew. “But that is not possible.”
“The Signore flatters me.” The monk nodded solemnly. He looked at his wide knotted arms, brown as earth. “One would not think I had lived eighty summers? No. I do not believe it myself. Eighty centuries, perhaps, but not eighty little summers. I think I have lived forever.”
Matthew sat down slowly. The monk looked at the sea and then turned to look at the mountains, at the monastero, at the vines and the vegetables and the flowers. “It is not possible that I have seen this so short a time,” he said. “I was young when Italy was young. I shall live as long as Italy, as long as the world, and even when the world is gone.” The livid shadow left his face; there was a resolution upon it now, and joy. “One does not need a priest to tell one this. One knows, in one’s heart.”
Matthew followed the monk’s slow and seeking gaze. The sea was pure gold, still and motionless, the mountains black and green and gray, the village below a mosaic of many vivid colors. Matthew waited for the old familiar lassitude to return, the ennui, the weariness. But it did not return. He thought to himself: I have not felt it for a long time. It has gone.
He smiled up at Fra Leonardo. “It is a pleasant thought,” he said.
“Ah, no, Signore, it is a conviction from God.”
What God? Matthew asked himself.
The monk said: “The God of all men, of all the universe, Signore.” Matthew looked at him in amazement, and this amazement heightened when Fra Leonardo continued in a dreamlike voice: “The Signore has said he does not know this God, and so this God has no meaning for him.”
The monk put his stained hands on his immense hips. Slowly, again, he drank in the sight of the sky and of the mountains and of the sea. “The Signore has told me of India, and of the religion of the people who live there, how they believe that life is inseparable from pain, and therefore not desirable. The Signore seemed to think this belief very wise. I do not think it wise. I think it is illness. True it is that life is inseparable from pain. Even a child understands that. But if so, of what importance is it? Pain is a small price to pay for living. A broken heart or a broken fortune is bearable so long as the eye can look upon the sun.”
He added: “But the Signore has said that there are such countless suns in space. That is an excellent thing. Nowhere, then, is there darkness. Nowhere, then, is there death. No eye can close without opening again upon the sun, somewhere, sometime; no soul can ever be alone, ever be without God.”
Matthew sat very still, his face averted. The monk turned to him. “The Signore thinks I am an old and stupid man, without wisdom or knowledge? He thinks I am a child who speaks childishly?”
“I did not say so,” replied Matthew.
Fra Leonardo sighed. But he also smiled. “Ah, Signore, you are young, and I am old in this world. It is only the young who say: ‘There is no God.’ It is only the young who say: ‘There is nothing but pain and evil.’ That is because their years are few.” He waited, but Matthew did not answer him. The monk chuckled. “A young man once said to me with such weariness: ‘I have seen everything.’ And I replied: ‘No, my son. He who thinks he has seen everything no longer sees anything.’”
Matthew moved restlessly, without speaking.
“There are some,” continued the monk, “who no longer laugh, because they believe they have gone beyond laughter. That is only because they have never laughed at all.”
He waited for Matthew to speak. When the young man remained silent, the monk sighed, and now it was a sigh of sadness, without his usual humor. “I do not know why I speak so to the Signore, so impudently, for I am nobody, and the Signore is a man of learning and has seen the world. I must implore the Signore’s pardon. I can only say that I have spoken so because there is an urgency in me, a hurry, as a man speaks who is closing a gate behind him and must leave his friend.”
“Leave?” muttered Matthew, in confusion. He got to his feet. “You are not leaving?”
The vast old man merely looked up at him, smiling tenderly.
Then Matthew understood. He stood beside his friend, and his mouth opened in an involuntary expression of pain. “No,” he said. “You are only tired, Fra Leonardo. The day has been very hot. Tomorrow, you will not be so tired.”
“The Signore is right,” said the monk, gently. “I am afraid I have disturbed him. Nevertheless, I am deeply touched that the Signore should be concerned whether I remain or not.”
Once more, he looked at the surging glory and color all about him. “Ah, I have only one prayer, Signore, that I shall always see this place. How could I live without it, even in Heaven? There are times when I have thought of my years, and how it might come about that I should lie upon my cot, dying, and not see this sea again, this sky, this earth, but must die in my cell, which is filled with shadows.”
“You are very melancholy, tonight, Fra Leonardo.”
“The Signore must forgive me. Even I, who love God, have my sudden moments of sorrow and fear. It is a sin; I must do penance for this. But, Signore, I have often dreamt that someone would perhaps paint this for me, so that I could hang it upon the wall of my cell, and see it to the end! Doubtless, the abbot would object, and, then again, perhaps he would not. After all, I am an old man.”
Matthew spoke painfully: “There are so many paintings of similar views. If you wish, I shall buy one for you. I shall send away to Rome—”
“But no, Signore. It would not be this particular spot, this one small vision of Heaven. However, I thank the Signore for his kind heart, and his generosity.”
He sat down upon the stones. He seemed to have forgotten Matthew. His eyes drank in the panorama about him. He smiled, and sighed, and the rosy sky reflected itself upon his face.
After some time he murmured: “The Signore will return home some day?”
“No,” said Matthew, quietly. Now it seemed to him most necessary to speak to this old man. He said: “You see, there is nothing for me at home. I was given everything.” He tried to stop himself, but the words poured out swiftly and brokenly: “It is so hard to explain, for I hardly know, myself. My father gave his whole life for his children. Have I told you I have a brother and two sisters? No. I did not tell you. But all of us—we are nothing, because we were taught we were everything. We were given love, but no love was demanded of us, and so we had no love at all. I have told you that I cannot explain. It is only there.
“And so, it is impossible to return to a place where there is no love, where everything is given even before the asking. For when one has everything one has nothing. Is that not so?”
“Yes, it is so,” murmured Fra Leonardo.
Matthew’s voice hurt him as he went on: “You will say I am a most unnatural son, for I do not love the father who loves me. But he has debased himself in our eyes, because he asked nothing from us. I could
not see him again, without remembering. It is not good for a son to despise his father; while I am here I can think of him as a noble man, as a man who lived only for his children, unselfishly and with all his heart. I can even think of him with a little love, and much sadness. But only if I do not see him again. You think I am heartless, Fra Leonardo?”
“No,” said the monk, mournfully. “I think you are only suffering.”
With deep eyes he watched the young man as Matthew moved away a little.
“I do not love my mother,” said Matthew. “I was cruel to her, when it was not her fault. I wounded her, and it was not her fault. I cannot see her again, either. I only hope that she will some day forgive me. And there is my brother. If I never see him again, I shall forget I hated him. There are my sisters, and they are strangers to me. I have no home but here, Fra Leonardo, and no friend but you.”
“You have God,” said the monk.
Matthew shook his head impatiently. “Not yet, Fra Leonardo. Not yet. There will come a day perhaps—” He turned back to the old man, who looked up at him with profound intensity. “When I am in this place, and with you, and I have my books, and my thoughts, something stirs in me, something begins to live, very feebly—but it lives. I know I am not dead. Do you know how it feels, Fra Leonardo, when one thinks one is dead?”
“I know what you have felt, my son,” replied the monk. “But you have not been dead. You have only been asleep.”
“It might be that I shall awaken,” said Matthew.
He said: “For a long time, after I came here, I saw nothing. You have made me see, Fra Leonardo. It still is very dim, but I am beginning to see.”
“You see, Signore, because you have looked beyond yourself.”
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